#captive omega

𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑, 𝟏𝟑:𝟎𝟎𝐩𝐦, 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚, 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚.

It was just darkness, a never ending black that you were vaguely conscious to, wondering if you’d ever awaken. The sensation of floating was ruined as your body fell and kept falling, hitting hard onto a uncomfortable mattress. A ripping breath of air tore out of you as you tried to sit up, sweat had soaked your hair and skin.

You were on a soft material. Your palm covered your chest trying to control the painful stabs of your pounding heart. Your eyes darted around the room, discovering you were no longer in the hospital. You were in a cubicle space on a squeaky bed.

The bed you were sweating on was surrounded by three walls and a curtain. You swallowed hard before hesitantly climbing on top of the mattress to stand up and peer over the tops of the walls. You could see a grand hall almost. Rows of cubicles filled with single and bunk beds surrounded the area. You counted at least thirty cubicles that you could see.

You were utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Heart hammering, you climbed back down onto the mattress, your legs shaking. Only then did you notice the gown you were wearing. It was plain, stark in its modesty, a long white dress that buttoned up tightly to your neck, the sleeves cuffed neatly at your wrists. Over it was a blue apron, stiff and scratchy, tied tightly around your waist.

You stared at yourself, horror curdling in your stomach. The fabric was starched and thick, the kind of material that resisted touch, that rubbed the skin raw after too long. It wasn’t just clothing, it was a uniform.

You recognized the style, too, the same way you’d seen women dressed in documentaries about closed religious communities, the kind churned out by sanitized Netflix exposés or twisted into lurid spectacles on reality TV. Mormons. Amish. Groups that preached obedience, subservience, purity.

Your hands moved on instinct, fingernails scraping at the fabric. That’s when you noticed your nails.

Clipped short. Cleaned underneath.

Your body stiffened with a jolt of revulsion.

You hadn't done that.

Someone had bathed you, stripped you, scrubbed you clean like an object, a possession, while you were unconscious and helpless. Your skin crawled at the thought, a sick, twisting disgust knotting in your stomach. What else had they done while you slept in that dark void?

A gleam caught your eye.

You lifted your left wrist, and there it was.

A metal bracelet, fastened tightly, cold against your skin. Permanent. Shiny and new.

Your breath hitched as you leaned in to read the thin, cruel lettering etched into the surface.

NAME: ______ ______

D.O.B.: XX/XX/XXXX

STATUS: OMEGA

The final word was the worst, carved in precise, mechanical lettering. Cold. Permanent. Branding you like livestock. A product, tagged and cataloged for processing.

You touched it, lightly, as if hoping it would come off. It didn’t. It was seamless. Unbreakable.

A choked sound escaped your throat. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Just the sound of something breaking.

Somewhere in the distance, far beyond the cubicles, a door creaked open with a mechanical whine. Footsteps, soft, measured, echoed faintly on the cold concrete floor.

You dropped back onto the bed, your hands gripping the thin blanket, chest heaving as panic clawed at your lungs.

You weren’t in a hospital anymore.

You were somewhere worse.

Correction.

Your throat tightened to the point of aching. Spring, it was supposed to be warm now, humid even, but the air in this place was cold and thin, leeching the heat straight out of your bones. Your fingers fumbled clumsily at the high, stifling collar of the dress, wrenching the top button open. A weak gust of air brushed your skin, but it wasn’t enough.

You prodded the swollen gland nestled in the crook of your neck, just above your collarbone, sore, inflamed. It throbbed beneath your touch, a dull, angry ache that made you wince. You pressed your hand flat to your chest, trying to breathe, to steady the frantic stabs of your pulse.

The curtain snapped back, tearing the fabric aside with a sharp hiss.

You flinched, heart leaping to your throat.

Standing there was a woman, no, a relic, draped in a habit so severe it seemed to pull her skin taut against her skull. Her face was a pale, wrinkled map of lines and creases, her thin lips dragged downward by gravity and ill temper. She resembled a fish, or perhaps something worse, a wide-mouthed lizard, waiting for a struggling fly to land too close.

Her blue eyes gleamed, cold and flat, as she stretched her lips into a thin, mechanical smile.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice sugary but brittle, the kind of voice that broke under pressure. “Would you like some breakfast?”

You stared at her, stunned by how wrong she felt. Her words were sweet, her tone superficially kind, but there was nothing welcoming about her, nothing warm. It was a hollow performance, skin-deep and polished thin. You could feel it in your bones: she didn’t care.

She smiled like a spider smiles at a trapped fly.

Despite the ache in your gut, despite the hollow hunger gnawing at your insides, you hesitated. Your instincts screamed caution. You knew, without knowing how, that nothing she offered would be truly safe.

But she was the only way out of the cubicle. The only exit you could see.

Skepticism coiled tightly in your gut, but fear was stronger, the fear of staying trapped. You darted your eyes around the space, searching for exits, for pathways, but nothing revealed itself. The heavy silence of the empty hall pressed in around you.

You couldn’t remember where they had taken you, not exactly. The transport van had been dark and windowless.

You were a prisoner.

“Come on now, girl,” the nun chirped, her brittle smile sharpening. She clapped her papery hands together, the sound startling in the silence. “Don’t dawdle.”

You stood, forcing your legs to move, your thighs chafing against the scratchy fabric as you followed close on her heels. With every step, your unease grew. The stiff cotton of the unfamiliar underwear chafed unpleasantly, and you swallowed against the nausea that crept up your throat.

They had bathed you. Dressed you. Touched you while you were unconscious.

And you hadn’t even been awake to resist.

As you trailed the nun down a wide corridor, your eyes flicked from side to side. Door after door after door, sterile offices labeled for doctors and nurses, kitchens, laundry rooms, classrooms. There were rooms filled with rows of art supplies, other rooms with plastic playpens and.....

You recoiled, heart thudding.

Fake nurseries.

They were preparing you, not for freedom, not for a life outside, but for breeding. For submission. Your nose wrinkled at the antiseptic air mixed with the faint, sour tang of fear and desperation that seemed baked into the very walls.

You passed a looming marble statue next, a woman draped in robes, her carved belly impossibly round and heavy with child. Atop her head sat a crescent moon crown, delicate but cold.

Selene. Or Luna, the goddess of the moon, of fertility.

You felt betrayed by the sight. You’d never been particularly religious, but still. Wasn’t she supposed to be merciful? Isn’t that what you learned when you were young? That the goddess was fair? If she were, if there were any justice, she would never have let your parents hand you over. Never let you become this.

Your gaze dropped to the plinth where her name was carved in heavy block letters:

SAINT SELENE’S SCHOOL FOR ADOLESCENT OMEGAS

A lie. It wasn’t a school. It was a prison wrapped in dogma and duty.

You pressed on behind the nun, your eyes catching movement outside. A glimpse of windows, thick, fogged glass that barely let in the pale light.

You leaned, peering outside.

Beyond the scattered squat buildings, classrooms, dorms maybe, rose a towering fence. Steel and concrete. Thick, ugly barbed wire curled along the top like a crown of thorns. It wasn’t just a barrier.

It was a warning.

You stopped in your tracks, the breath knocked from your lungs.

You weren’t at a school.

You were in a cage.

A cry broke free from your chest before you could stop it. Sharp, guttural, cracking against the sterile air. Tears blurred your vision and spilled down your cheeks unchecked.

You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to your friends. Would Emily and Jayden know? Would your parents even bother to tell them? Or would you simply vanish, written off and forgotten, like a stain on the carpet to be scrubbed away?

Would you ever see them again?

The loneliness, vast, endless, cracked you open like a hollow egg. You were alone. You had been ripped from everything you knew, friends, dreams, freedom, as easily as tearing a page from a book.

The nun’s shoes clacked sharply as she turned and stormed back toward you, her expression souring. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. Her hand shot out, pinching the thick strap of your apron between her fingers. She tugged you roughly, and you stumbled to catch up, herding you away from the windows like an errant sheep.

You followed because what else could you do?

Your new shoes, stiff, unfamiliar, bit at your heels, but you dared not trip or resist.

Through a pair of massive wooden doors she led you, and they swung open to reveal a cavernous cafeteria.

Three long, unending tables stretched down the room, crowded with girls, Omegas, all dressed identically in the same starched white dresses and blue aprons. They sat in neat, quiet rows, the din of chatter dying immediately as the doors opened.

Every head turned.

Every pair of eyes locked onto you.

Their stares weren’t welcoming, they weren’t curious.

They were hungry.

The nun’s mouth stretched into a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Girls,” she announced, her voice shrill and bright, “please welcome our newest sister to our blessed home, Miss ______ ______.”

She released your apron strap with a final, dismissive pat to your shoulder, a message loud and clear: You’re on your own now.

At the far end of the room sat a long, vertical table, behind which older figures perched, nuns, nurses, men and women in sterile white coats. They smiled, thin, polished smiles, as if you were a guest of honor instead of a lamb to slaughter.

A bowl was shoved into your hands, steaming, pale, plain porridge. A single spoon stuck out of the mush like a sinking ship.

“Well then,” the nun said, leaning down to whisper near your ear, her breath hot and sticky. “Why don’t you find a seat?”

You swallowed, your mouth dry and sour.

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

The room was suffocating, filled with a heavy, waiting silence as you took your first step down the aisle. You felt the burn of every gaze, every whispered comment that hissed at the edges of your hearing.

Insults about your hair. Your weight. Your scent, dirty, they sneered.

Your hands trembled as you clutched the bowl tighter. The hot porridge sloshed, threatening to spill over the edges.

No one moved to make space.

No one smiled.

No one welcomed you.

They stared and whispered, their words sharp as knives, their eyes colder than the barbed wire outside.

You weren’t one of them.

You were worse.

The bad Omega.

And you realized, heart sinking, that you had been abandoned not just by your parents, but by everyone.

You swallowed hard, the movement tight and painful, and for a brief, desperate second, you prayed the tile floor would crack open and swallow you whole. Anything to disappear, to slip away from the dozens of stares pinning you in place like a butterfly to a board.

Your feet hesitated, scuffing against the floor as you stood at the front of the dining hall, clutching the bowl of porridge so tightly that your knuckles blanched white. The silence pressed on you, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the judgment rolling off the other girls in waves, an invisible current of disdain that made your skin crawl and your gut twist.

You wanted to turn and run, to bolt back through the double doors, but you knew, somehow, that there would be nowhere to run to. No doors would swing open for you here. No escape waited on the other side.

Instead, you forced yourself to move forward, every step a struggle, your shoulders tight, your chin tucked low.

It was like walking into a den of wolves, and you could tell, by the sharp glares and the curling lips, that these wolves had been starved. These girls weren’t curious. They weren’t kind. They were broken, and they didn’t like outsiders. They didn’t want a new sister, a new friend.

Especially not a bad Omega.

As you paced slowly between the tables, the room seemed to close in tighter around you. You could feel their eyes, sharp as glass, sliding over every inch of you, dissecting you. You heard the low, hissing whispers ripple along your path, harsh, ugly comments thrown like stones.

Your hair. Your weight. Your face. Your scent.

Dirty.

The word hit you harder than you expected. You recoiled internally, your heart shrinking in your chest, your cheeks flaming with hot shame. You couldn’t stop the slight hitch in your breath, the sting in your eyes. You blinked rapidly, fighting against the wave of humiliation threatening to drown you.

No one moved to make room for you.

Not one girl slid over or offered a space at their table. They simply stared, their faces impassive or sneering, their conversations resuming in low, hushed murmurs that felt pointed and cruel.

You were just about to give up, just about to stand there frozen and hopeless, when you caught a flicker of movement.

Across the way, at the third table, a girl sat, skinny as a rake, with limp blonde hair pulled back in a tight, no-nonsense braid. She was watching you, her pale eyebrows arched in amusement. With one skeletal hand, she curled her fingers at you in a beckoning gesture.

“Hey, new girl,” she called, her voice carrying a mocking lilt, “come sit with us.”

A sharp click of heels approached, and a nun patrolling the hall scowled in her direction. “Lower your voice,” she snapped.

The girl rolled her eyes with exaggerated slowness and turned back to you with a sly grin, mouthing clearly, Come sit here.

The room’s tension eased marginally as chatter resumed, the sound swelling again like a wave breaking over your head. The girls around you seemed to lose interest, their whispered insults fading back into private conversations. But you still felt their eyes on you, still felt the prickling sense of being watched, judged.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, instincts telling you that this was no rescue, but the alternative was worse. The alternative was alone.

And you weren’t sure you could survive alone here.

Clutching your bowl tighter, you moved quickly across the room, heart hammering, the hem of your dress whispering around your ankles. You reached the blonde girl’s table, and she shifted, sliding over just enough to make a narrow space for you to sit.

Gratefully, pathetically, you dropped down onto the wooden bench. The surface was cold and hard under your thighs, but you barely noticed.

Only then did you look around and realize she wasn’t alone.

Four other girls clustered near her, a tight little knot of companions, all wearing the same institutional gowns and aprons. They were smiling, but not in a friendly way. Smirking. Watching you like you were some new toy they hadn’t decided how to break yet.

“Are…” you began, your voice small. You bit your bottom lip and forced the words out. “Are you all Omegas?”

The chatter from the other tables surged higher, a dull roar in the background. But here, at this table, everything felt sharper, more dangerous.

The blonde girl barked a laugh, short and sharp, and gestured loosely to herself and her friends. “Nah,” she drawled. “Kylie’s an Alpha elf, an Gen’s a Beta fairy, an why I’m an eleven-fingered witch.” She wiggled her clearly ten-fingered hands for emphasis.

The others giggled, a mean-spirited sound that twisted your gut.

You gave a small, strained chuckle, more a grimace than anything. “Okay,” you muttered, folding your arms tight across your chest. “A simple yes would’ve sufficed.”

One of the other girls leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. She had an olive complexion, a curly dark bob that framed her face, and sharp brown eyes that glinted with amusement.

“What’s got you so hot, new girl?” she asked, voice dripping with faux sweetness. She winked. “Didn’t like your blood results?”

You stiffened at the jab, instinctively tightening your grip on the bowl in front of you. Your eyes flicked down, staring at the pale mush of your porridge. Your stomach growled low and pathetic, but the thought of eating now was nauseating.

You sat forward, stirring the bland oats with the tip of your spoon. “I was supposed to be an Alpha,” you muttered, bitterness slipping into your voice before you could stop it. “But now I’m just a stupid fucking Omega.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a collective, exaggerated gasp from the girls around you. Their expressions shifted, mocking, pained, theatrical.

“Oh no, not a stupid Omega,” one of them crooned sarcastically.

“Poor baby,” another added with a smirk.

You flushed hot with shame.

“Easy with the slurs, new girl,” snapped a voice across from you. You looked up sharply. The speaker was a girl with a sharp face, a severe black pixie cut, and a toothpick bobbing between her lips. She leaned back in her seat, arms folded, sizing you up with a cold, appraising stare. Her features were so severe you might have mistaken her for a boy if it weren’t for the soft curve of her jaw, the absence of an Adam’s apple. There was something hard in her dark eyes, something that made your skin prickle.

“You think we chose this?” she huffed. She tapped her wristband with a sharp finger, Omega engraved in its polished surface, just like yours. “You think any of us dreamed about being ‘breeders not leaders’ or whatever the fuck that cunt Andrew Tate said?”

You dropped your gaze, the heat rising in your cheeks unbearable. She was right. And you hated how much you knew it. Growing up, Omegas had been little more than background noise to you, second-class, unseen, dismissed. You never considered what it felt like. What it cost.

You sniffled, blinking hard against the tears burning at the back of your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in front of them, didn’t want to show that weakness.

But it leaked out anyway.

“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

And for a moment, the girls were quiet, watching, weighing, deciding.

“Hey, we get it,” the smallest girl said, leaning over the table like we were sharing a secret. Her ginger braids swung forward as she reached out and, without asking, cupped your hand in hers. Her palm was warm, dry, and steady, weirdly steady for someone in this place.

She gave you this smile, not mean, but not exactly kind either. More like, I know something you don’t.

“Besides,” she added, lowering her voice even though it was already too quiet around you, “rumour is… your parents dumped you here.”

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt. You didn’t say anything, couldn’t, but your eyes flicked up just in time to catch her jerk her chin toward the front of the room.

You didn’t need to follow her gaze to know where she was looking: the long table where the nuns, the nurses, and the staff sat like kings in a castle. All watching. All waiting.

“They’ve been yapping about it all morning,” she said. “You’re big news. Guess they told the Sisters you’re sticking around this summer.”

She smiled wider, like it was funny.

Like it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever heard in your life.

Your bottom lip trembled, a total traitor, and you bit it hard to make it stop.

That was it. That was confirmation.

Your parents really had left you. After everything, after all the I love you’s and we’re proud of you’s, it all boiled down to one ugly, stupid fact: there was something in your blood they didn’t like. Something they couldn’t fix. And they didn’t want to deal with it.

So they dumped you.

You blinked fast, rubbing at your eyes before anything embarrassing could happen, like crying in front of a bunch of strangers who already looked at you like you were the world’s saddest charity case.

“How many stay behind?” you croaked out, trying to sound chill, like you didn’t care.

The porridge in front of you looked like glue and tasted worse. You shoveled a spoonful into your mouth anyway. It was like eating wet cardboard. Every chew made your stomach turn, but the hunger was worse. Way worse.

The blonde girl, the one who’d waved you over, popped a smirk. “includin’ you?” she said, dragging it out like she already knew the answer was gonna suck. “Six.”

She started ticking them off like she was introducing a team in a really depressing sport.

“Kylie,” she said, nodding toward a girl who was scraping under her nails with the end of a plastic spoon like she had all the time in the world. She was beautiful in a no-nonsense way, skin a rich, dark brown, lips a weird shade of pink like they’d been scrubbed raw. Somehow, her dress actually fit, not saggy and shapeless like the rest of you, and it made her look even more out of place, like she was slumming it in costume.

“Gen,” she added, and the redhead, the one still holding your hand, beamed like you were old friends. She had the whole soft thing going on: round face, full cheeks, huge blue eyes behind wire glasses. Kind of like a human teddy bear. Except, you guessed, probably not so cuddly if she’d lasted here.

“Chip,” she continued, nodding at the girl with a curly bob and a sharp, birdlike face. Chip gave you a slow, almost lazy smile as she licked porridge off her spoon and wagged her eyebrows like she was in on some private joke you didn’t get.

“Pepper,” she said next, and you didn’t even have to guess who that was.

Pepper sat across from you like a statue, thick arms crossed over her chest, toothpick rolling between her teeth. Her dark eyes were heavy-lidded and unreadable, her biceps straining against the sleeves of her dress. She looked like she could kill you with one hand tied behind her back. Scars ran up and down her forearms, old, round ones, like burns or bites or... you didn’t even want to guess.

Pepper looked like she should’ve been born an Alpha.

“And me,” the blonde said last, flashing a grin. “I’m Legs.” She fluttered her lashes like she was making fun of herself. Her long, skinny arms dangled against the table, her hair was a mess of tangles, and her accent, deep, Southern, made her sound like she walked straight out of some old cowboy movie.

You stared at her. Legs?

Out of, what, a hundred girls, six got left behind for summer? The rest had parents who wanted them. Families who still sent letters and begged them home for breaks.

You had a house, technically.

You just didn’t have anyone who wanted you back in it.

You forced another spoonful of porridge down your throat and nearly gagged. The girls must’ve seen your face twist because they all laughed, not mean, exactly, but not nice either. They banged the table in sync, making the bowls rattle.

You sat there, cheeks burning, wondering if this was what “welcome” felt like in this place.

Chip, Gen, Pepper, Kylie… Legs. You blinked at them, confused.

“What kind of names are those?” you blurted, frowning.

Legs smirked, and Pepper gave a low huff through her nose, shifting her toothpick.

“Are those your real names?” you asked, already kind of knowing the answer but needing to say something.

“Fuck no,” Pepper said, voice low and scratchy. She popped the toothpick from one side of her mouth to the other without blinking. “But it’s what we call each other.”

Gen, the redhead, grinned and piped up like it was the best thing ever. “After you’re here long enough, you get a nickname. You earn it.”

You leaned back a little, piecing it together.

Nicknames. Bad food. Solitary. Uniforms. Rumors and whispers and no one ever really smiling unless it was at someone else’s misery.

This wasn’t a school.

It wasn’t even a home.

It was a fucking prison.

And now you were one of the inmates.

“How long have you all been here?” you asked, your voice low.

You tried to keep it casual, tried to sound like it didn’t really matter, but the way they all shifted a little in their seats, glanced at each other with something between amusement and pity, made your skin crawl.

Maybe, just maybe, you thought, if you could survive the summer, your parents would come back for you. Maybe they’d change their minds, realize they made a mistake. You just had to get through four months.

Four months wasn’t forever. Right?

Legs was the first to answer. She set her spoon down and stretched her arms overhead until her shoulders popped. “I’ve been here the longest,” she said, almost like she was bragging. “Turned twenty four months ago. They dropped me off when I was ‘bout seven, back when they first started takin’ Omegas that young.”

She said it so casually, like it was normal, like she wasn’t telling you she’d basically grown up inside these walls.

She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Now the little ‘n’s don’t come here. They ship them off to Camp Neoma for Younglin’ Omega Youth.” The way she said it, with that careful, fake-cheerful tone, made it sound like Camp Neoma was a place where hope went to die.

You swallowed hard, the hope you were clinging to slipping a little.

Gen squeezed your fingers again and giggled, a too-bright, too-quick sound that made your stomach twist. “Chip and I came here about the same time. We were ten. Been here ever since.” She tilted her head, smiling like it was just some fun fact about herself. “Seventeen now.”

You nodded, but your brain felt like it was filling with static. Seven years. Locked away for seven years.

“Pepper showed up two years ago,” Gen went on, “and she’s nineteen now.”

Pepper didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. She just draped one thick, scarred arm around Kylie’s shoulders. Kylie, the one who looked the least bothered by anything. She laughed under her breath and tilted her head toward you.

“None of us are leaving until we turn twenty-one,” Pepper said, her voice low and rough. “Unless our parents come back and claim us.”

Kylie smirked, a sharp, almost cruel twist of her mouth. “Absolute abandonment,” she said, like it was a joke. But the others laughed too, soft, bitter chuckles, and it hit you that they weren’t joking at all. They were used to this. This was their normal.

Your stomach turned over again, but not from hunger this time.

Twenty-one.

You did the math in your head.

Four years.

Four years until you aged out, if your parents didn’t come back for you.

If they never came back.

Like Kylie said, absolute abandonment.

Your hands tightened around the edge of the table. You felt the tears before you even realized they were falling, hot and stupid, sliding down your cheeks no matter how hard you clenched your jaw. You wiped them away fast, tried to act casual about it, like it was just dust or something in your eye.

But you knew they saw. You could feel them watching you, reading every little crack.

“So, small fry,” Legs said, tapping your hand with the back of her spoon. “How old are ya?”

You cleared your throat. “I’m… eighteen.”

Gen groaned dramatically and flopped her head against Kylie’s shoulder. “Damn it. I’m still the youngest.”

Kylie laughed and pressed a kiss to Gen’s forehead, leaving a soft pink mark between her brows. She reached up and began braiding Gen’s ginger hair, careful and slow, fingers nimble. Gen leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was a weird sight. Sweet, almost, but in a way that made your chest ache.

They kissed again, quick, on the lips, before Chip jabbed Gen in the side and jerked her chin toward the patrolling nuns. They were circling like vultures, their eyes hard, scanning the room for signs of disobedience.

You didn’t miss the way their gazes lingered on Kylie and Gen a little longer than necessary.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, scratching at your neck where the collar of the dress bit into your skin. The material was thick, rough, like wearing a sack. The metal bracelet on your wrist dug in every time you moved. Everything about this place was designed to make you feel it, the fact that you were no longer a person, but a thing.

You tugged at the sleeve irritably. “D-do we have to wear these?” you asked, voice tight. You hated the feel of it. Hated the thought of strangers dressing you while you were unconscious. Hated this second-hand underwear that felt alien against your skin.

“Yep,” Legs said, lounging back like she couldn’t care less. “You’ll get used to it.”

You swallowed down a sharp retort. I don’t want to get used to it.

You wanted your own clothes. Jeans. T-shirts. Soft cotton sweaters that smelled like home. Not this, not these shapeless uniforms and thick socks and hard, ugly shoes.

Legs shrugged. “At least you don’t have to waste time picking outfits every morning. No stress.”

You wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. You wanted your own fucking underwear, not this scratchy, nameless uniform life.

Across the table, Gen giggled and pressed closer to Kylie, who was still methodically parting her hair with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Kylie’s fingers were gentle, steady. It was intimate in a way that made something deep in your chest twist uncomfortably, part jealousy, part longing.

You didn’t want to admit it, but some part of you ached for that, for someone to look after you, to fix your hair, to kiss your forehead like it meant something.

You hadn’t earned that here. You hadn’t earned anything yet.

“Why don’t you have a nickname?” you asked Kylie, genuinely curious now. All the others had them, Legs, Chip, Gen, Pepper, but Kylie stood out. She didn’t seem to need a nickname.

Kylie smiled lazily, like she got asked that a lot. She stretched her long fingers in front of her, flexing them slowly.

“Kylie is my nickname,” she said, voice soft but amused. “Real name’s Tamika. But…” she leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper as a nun passed by, “I used to be obsessed with reality TV. Kardashians, TLC, Beta Bachelorette, Fourteen Litters and Counting, all that shit. Thought if I had to be stuck in a cage, might as well sound glamorous, right?”

She wiggled her fingers at you, and only now did you notice, her nails weren’t just clean, they were painted a deep, glossy blue. The polish was chipped in places, but it gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

You blinked. They weren’t allowed to have that. You were sure of it.

Kylie grinned wider at your expression and quickly tucked her hands out of sight before the nun could double back.

It hit you, how small her rebellion was, and how big it probably felt.

You could feel it, simmering under the easy grins and half-laughs, a rage so old it had calcified into something sharper, colder. The other Omegas around you, Legs, Chip, Gen, Kylie, even Pepper, they were smiling, joking, but it was a brittle thing, stretched too thin to be real.

And when you looked closer, really looked, you could see it.

Hate.

It burned in their eyes, in the tightness of their jaws, in the way they never let their backs fully face the room, always turned just enough to see who was watching.

Legs leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that barely travelled across the table. “Don’t trust the nurses. Or the doctors. Or the Sisters.” Her mouth curled in something too bitter to be a smile. “They act nice, all honey and sweet tea, but it’s bullshit. Depending on your ‘care plan’…”, she threw the words out like a curse, “…you’ll find out real quick what kind of school this actually is.”

You thought back to the glimpse you’d gotten out the window earlier. The fence. So high it blotted out the sky. The ugly twist of barbed wire glittering in the sun like jagged teeth. The sheer permanence of it.

This was a place designed to break you down into something compliant, manageable. To grind the dangerous parts of you, your will, your anger, your hope, into dust.

You swallowed thickly, your mouth dry. “So… Legs stands for... ?”

You dragged the question out, half-hoping it was just a dumb nickname story. Something stupid, something human.

Chip snorted and jerked her thumb sideways at Legs. “We call Lacey Legs because she’s the fastest thing in this dump.”

Legs preened under the attention, running a hand over her corn-yellow slicked back bun, like a cocky athlete.

“She’s gotten out,” Chip added casually.

You blinked, feeling a sharp twist of hope, of possibility. “Out?” you breathed. “You mean, out, out? Past the fence?”

No one could get past that. Right?

Legs chuckled, low and self-satisfied. “Escaped and caught,” she clarified, flashing a grin that showed off a chipped tooth.

“Eleven goddamn times,” Pepper added with a snort, her toothpick bobbing between her teeth. She shook her head, the ghost of a smile on her scarred face. “All to see some dumb fucking Alpha locked up in Portia’s Penitentiary for Male Adolescent Alphas.”

You gawked, your mind spinning. You hadn’t even known there was a place like that, an institution for Alphas.

An Alpha facility.

Somehow, the idea chilled you worse than the fence.

What if you hadn’t tested Omega? What if you’d tested Alpha, would you have been sent to Portia’s instead? Would you have been locked away all the same, shoved into some other cold, dead-end place because your parents couldn’t deal with the hormones, the expectations, the danger you supposedly posed?

You heard yourself mumble, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t know Alphas had institutions too…”

“They don’t call it an institution,” Kylie said, her voice soft but edged with something grim. “They call it rehabilitation. They lock the boys up when they get too… rough. Too dangerous.” She stirred her porridge idly, not bothering to eat it. “Mostly it’s the ones who couldn’t control themselves during their ruts. Boys who snapped, who attacked someone, who… didn’t respond to the over-the-counter suppressants.”

You swallowed hard, nausea creeping up the back of your throat.

“They’re immune,” Kylie said, looking up at you with a calm that made it worse. “Some of them, anyway. Suppressants don’t work on every Alpha. Some are born too strong for that.”

You shivered, picturing it, a boy barely older than you, locked away because his biology made him a threat no one wanted to manage.

“Except Tom!” Legs chimed in brightly, slapping the table like this was just some gossip to pass the time. “Tom never hurt anybody.”

She beamed, proud. “He just, y’know…” she waved her hand vaguely, “gets really horny. Like, crazy horny.”

Chip snorted and stuck out her tongue. “Nasty slut,” she teased, grinning at Legs with something like real fondness.

Legs just laughed, unbothered. “Don’t judge me bitch. Some of us get an itch that can’t be scratched.”

The words were light, but the weight behind them wasn’t.

"Lesbianism aint on the table like you others," she smiled, "I prefer a bit of dick in my honey pot."

You glanced at Legs again, at the faint, pale lines across her forearms. At the tired sag of her eyes, the restless twitch in her fingers.

It wasn’t a joke.

None of this was.

The joke was the system, the idea that Saint Selene’s was a school. That Portia’s was rehabilitation. That any of you were here because you needed help.

The truth was sharper, meaner.

You were here because you were inconvenient.

Because you didn’t fit neatly into the world outside.

And the longer you sat at this table, the more you realized that none of the rules, none of the words they used, school, camp, correction, none of it was real.

What was real was the fence. The cold floors. The heavy, shapeless dresses. The taste of porridge that stuck like cement to your tongue.

What was real was the bracelet on your wrist, the cold metal biting into your skin, your name and your blood status etched into it like a brand.

What was real was the way they smiled when they said, absolute abandonment.

“Girls!” befell a booming tone, a deep solemn voice that had the hairs on the back of your neck rising, “I hope I’m not hearing foul language being said in front of our new resident.” Prisoner. Not resident.

His thick hand curled onto of her shoulder, heavy and solidly threatening. You bit your lip.

Don’t interact.

“Hey Doc H!” Legs laughed “Nah,” and threw him a low high-five, she wiped her nose and shrugged while she warranted, “We’re just laying down the rules to the new girl…like uh....curfew…”

C-curfew?!

“Oh really?” he hummed staring at you. You avoided eye contact and slowly scraped your spoon through your empty bowl.

“Yeah, good ol’ eight o’clock curfew for a four o’clock rise.”

You froze. The doctor laughed his head tilting back a slight.

Four o’clock? What the fuck is this place, the military?! This is undoubtedly a prison, help!

“And how’s our new resident feeling?” he asked, smiling down at you. His fingers plucked up the empty bowl and spoon you were fiddling with.

You turned your head up and held him in a might glare, your viperous tongue spat “How every girl feels being forced into an asylum without her consent,” you forced a smile, “trapped and imprisoned.”

His smile did not falter and that was something powerful…it stabbed you in the chest. He was not easily tempted to anger? Maybe you would have to find another pen, you thought wickedly…

He blinked and nodded slowly, that sickening, stomach dropping grin still on his face.

The silence was cold and the other girls shared side glances, even the other tables fell quieter to listen in.

“Docter, what have you been up to lately,” Pepper commented brightly, the layer of dimmed joy grew back, “We haven’t seen you for so long, weeks!”

“Yeah, well I’m happy to tell you that I’ll be hanging around you more often. Oh and I got you something,” he bent down and whispered, “but I’ll give them to you tonight before lights out.”

He said something into Pepper’s ear secretly and unheard. It left a giant smile stretched onto her lips. Like the cat that got the cream. He winked back at you and softly walked down to the table with other authority figures like the nuns.

While you watched him shake hands with other doctors at the table, you leant back in you chair with a relieved sigh, “Finally,”

“What’s wrong,” Legs murmured, “You and Doc H got bad chemistry or something?”

“He’s the asshole that put me here…” you hissed through your teeth.

All their eyes widened and they started laughing at you.

“If he’s just an asshole, god help us from the other nurses and doctors, feral dogs they are. The Doc is doing his job but at least he makes time to make us feel human instead of just ‘Omega breeding stock and future wives’. Sure...you can’t trust any of the doctors in here, but he’s the least threatening.”

Threatening?!

Suddenly a whistle blew, it was ear splitting. Within seconds everyone was picking up their bowls and standing up, walking from their tables. Shoving away from the table the five girls of the group rose from their seats.

“C’mon,” you felt Legs tap your arm, “grubs over,” she grinned, “how’s your skills at washing clothes?”

You timidly followed the other girls to rows of buckets where the dishes were discarded. You had no choice but to trust these girls. You stuck close beside Legs.

“It’s not that hard,” you finally smiled, “You just throw it into the washing machine and then the dryer.”

But when your new found friends started to all laugh together you felt a wind of dread…were they not washing clothes?

☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤Ω☤

The air was thick with steam, a damp suffocation that clung to skin and soaked into bone. It wasn’t just hot, it was wet and heavy, seeping into every pore, every breath, until it felt like the weight of the room itself was pressing you down.

The narrow windows, caked with grime and only cracked open a fraction, offered no escape. The vapor curled upward, ghostly tendrils slipping through the rotting slats in the walls, like the last desperate gasps of something dying. Overhead, the wooden beams sagged with the accumulated damp, dripping fat beads of condensation onto the squalid floor.

Everywhere, the hiss of hot water and the sloshing of soaked fabric.

The laundry room, or what passed for it, was a cavernous tomb of labor. Huge industrial basins, crude and rusting, filled the space like sunken graves, each brimming with water so hot it scalded on contact. Drenched bedsheets, stiff uniforms, and threadbare undergarments floated like drowned bodies, waiting to be purged of stains that clung as stubbornly as the sweat on your back.

Wooden dolly sticks, crude implements that looked more like instruments of punishment than tools, were plunged into the water, churning the sodden cloth with a force that quickly drained the strength from your arms. They were heavy, grotesquely heavy, weighted with swollen wood and years of use, and they demanded obedience from muscles not yet hardened by the system.

It wasn’t laundering.

It was breaking.

Already your hands, once soft, once human, were blistered and raw. Angry welts rose beneath the skin where the wood rubbed mercilessly. When the first blister burst, the searing pain shot through you like a live wire, and before you could stop yourself, you barked in fury.

“Ugh, motherfucker!”

Your voice cracked against the oppressive heat, a whip crack in the heavy silence.

The nuns didn’t move at first, but you heard the clinking of keys, a low, metallic jingle that sounded almost casual, almost lazy. But you knew better. It was the sound of power, worn on their hips like weapons.

One of them, seated in her throne-like chair, black habit soaked dark with the heat, unfolded her thin arms and tilted her head.

“Is something wrong, ______?” she asked, voice as patient as it was laced with threat.

You turned, chest heaving, fingers still clutching the dolly stick so tightly your knuckles whitened. You wanted to spit. Instead, you let the stick fall with a loud clatter, the splash soaking your legs to the knees.

“Yeah,” you growled, crossing your arms, daring her with your eyes. “This is fucking slave labor.”

Around you, the other girls froze, their tired arms stilling, the wet slap of cloth against wood ceasing. The room hushed in a collective breath.

You jerked your chin up, scanning their worn, slack faces. “What’s next?” you sneered. “Cotton picking?”

A gasp. A collective flinch.

An older nun, the one they all feared, her girth matched only by the red flush in her jowls, pushed herself up from her chair with a grunt of exertion. She waddled forward, the Divine Moon pendant on her chest swaying like a pendulum of judgment.

“Miss ______,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to sting. “I would insist you curb that filthy mouth of yours. Language like that, ” She paused to tap the tub’s edge with the rounded toe of her thick shoe. “This is unbecoming of your position.” she gestured around with a disgusted sneer, “This is standard Omega training. You ought to be grateful, your parents sent you to the finest facility.”

Grateful.

The word struck you like a slap.

The hag leaned closer, her breath foul with stale tea and the sourness of old bitterness, and jabbed a thick, stubby finger into your chest.

You reacted on instinct, fast, violent. You slapped her hand away, your palm cracking against her skin with a sharp pop.

A beat of stunned silence.

You bared your teeth. “Just because my chromosomes got fucked doesn’t mean I’m some glorified laundry maid. When I leave this shithole, I’ll pay someone to do this. Like normal people do. Real people.”

A ripple of gasps and scandalized whispers filled the room like a rising tide.

“Bad Omega.”

“Disrespectful.”

“Dirty.”

“Lazy Omega.”

“No one wants an Omega like her.”

The words cut through you, jagged and ugly. From the corner of your eye, you saw Legs, glancing nervously between you and the others. Her mouth was tight, apologetic, but she said nothing.

None of them did.

The sting of betrayal burned hotter than the water.

You didn’t cry. Wouldn’t.

Instead, you ground your teeth together until your jaw ached and tightened your fists until your nails bit into your palms.

The old nun smirked, a hideous twist of cracked lips and false benevolence.

“I will not tolerate disobedience,” she hissed, stepping back. “If you’re too proud to work, Miss ______, then you will serve your sentence elsewhere.” She turned to the others, raising her voice for effect. “Hall duty,” she barked.

Across the room, Chip shook her head subtly, mouthing a frantic no.

You hesitated.

Hall duty, how bad could it be? Guarding corridors? Watching for wandering girls?

It sounded like a blessing compared to this sweatshop nightmare.

You smirked, folding your arms again with a false casualness. “Anything but this.”

You didn't miss the glint in the nun’s eyes as she smiled.

Predatory.

Triumphant.

But you didn’t care.

You thought you were getting away.

You didn’t realize, yet, that in this place, punishment wasn’t about what they made you do.